Supernatural fic: "Periphery" 1a/1; R; gen-and-het (Sam/Jess); angstorama

[hiyacynth]

Cover art by the glorious chocca2

Title: Periphery 1a/1 (divided for posting purposes only)
Author: hiyacynth
Genre: Angst, Het, Quasi!AU
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, John, Mary, Jess; Sam/Jess
Rating and Warnings: R for language, sexual imagery, and mature themes. Set after 3x04 and contains general backstory spoilers to that point.
Word count: ~19,000
Disclaimer: If I owned the Winchesters-which, for the record, I do not-I would grant all their wishes.
Summary: Sam doesn't remember making a wish in the warehouse, just stumbling backwards, the djinn catching him by the front of his shirt and holding him in that unstable, wrong-direction lean over the long flight of stairs. But he remembers a look of satisfaction and peace on the tattooed face and a whisper that almost glowed: "I see your heart."


Author's Note: This was written for shakespearebint, who bought me in the January 2008 Sweet Charity auction benefiting the Writer's Guild Foundation. I hope she likes what I've come up with for her prompt, which was to write a story that takes the basic premise of "What Is and What Should Never Be" but shows what would have happened if Sam had been the one to encounter the djinn.

Caveat Lector: For the purposes of this story, I'm asking readers to work with me on a few universe adjustments:
1) WIaWSNB did not happen to Dean at all-just pretend Season 2 went from "Folsom Prison Blues" straight into "All Hell Breaks Loose."
2) Alterna!WIaWSNB takes place fairly soon after "Sin City," and copious amounts of WB Ointment need to be applied between its end and "Bedtime Stories."
And a warning: 3) This story contains extreme amounts of emo-porn. In my defense, I can only say that SPN showed me how high I had to jump to reach the emo bar it set; I took up the challenge and learned to pole vault.

Acknowledgements: Thanks, first and foremost to shakespearebint for her generous contributions to the Writer's Guild Foundation and for giving me a prompt that jump-started my creative process. I really hope this was what you had in mind. Sorry it took so long!
Eternal gratitude to the always awesome liptonrm, who listened to me ponder and obsess, and who read along and soothed my nerves as I finished each section. Did I mention she's always awesome? It's true.
Ongoing and sincere thanks to iamstealthyone and kimonkey7 for thoughtful and thorough betas.



Periphery

Sam wakes in the dark, his head thick and aching and stupid, as if half his brains have been replaced with rocks that shift painfully with every beat of his heart, every heavy draw of air into his lungs. Someone's with him-too close-he can hear them breathing. It's only the faint, familiar scent of cheap shaving cream that keeps him from panicking in his weakness. Opening his mouth hurts-turns the ache in his head to a stab-but he has to be sure.

"Dean?"

There's a sharp creak of old springs and the slide of leather against fabric, and a weight shifts the bed. A warm, dry hand closes around his forearm-steady, calm, permanent.

"Hey, Sammy. Take it easy."

"I think I-" Sam squints, but his eyes aren't adjusting how they should. "I thought it had me. Did it get me?"

"No, Sam. Nothin's got you."

The voice isn't right, and Sam wonders if whatever's responsible for his headache is affecting his hearing, too. "My head… Did I fall? Dean?"

"Shhh… You're gonna be fine. Dean'll be here in the morning. Get some sleep."

"Dad?" Sam's voice cracks across the name, and his eyes swell-too much pressure. He must be dreaming. Yes: dreaming the memory of falling off the jungle gym in third grade-he was fighting with Cory Sabatini while waiting for Dean's classes to let out at the middle school up the street. He's dreaming-that's why. "Dad?"

"Yeah, Sam."

Dad was there when he woke up back then, Dean asleep in the chair in the corner.

Sam moves his arm, sleepwalking it up until he's caught his father's hand in his own. "Don't go, Dad," he whispers, struggling to stay at exactly this level of sleep, where he can make the dream go on forever. "I'll be good. I won't fight anymore, I promise. Stay."

Dream-Dad's voice is rusty, just how Sam remembers. "I'm not going anywhere, kiddo. Go back to sleep."

***

Dean's voice draws Sam back to consciousness, and he lies still for a full minute before opening his eyes, listening to his brother quietly sweet-talk the nurse.

"His heart rate's down. That's good," she says.

"That'll change when he lays eyes on you." Dean's in high gear, using his velvety-smooth voice. "You oughta come with a warning sticker: 'May not be safe for patients with heart conditions.'"

Sam groans softly and opens his eyes; the light deepens the groan, makes it real.

The nurse smiles at him-Dean's not wrong, she's gorgeous-checks her watch, makes a note on her clipboard.

"Well, hi there. I'm Melanie. Can you tell me your name?"

Sam tries to keep the worry off his face as he fishes through his memory to come up with the name on the driver's license and credit card in his wallet. "Sam," he answers simply, and casts a glance at Dean, finds a diversionary tactic. "That's my brother. Don't give him your number."

Dean laughs and leans forward to give Sam's calf a good-natured shove. "Nice. Some wingman you are." He aims his most beguiling smile at the nurse. "Don't listen to him, Melanie. He's just jealous he slept through his chance with you."

The nurse flushes predictably but doesn't get off task. "I'll go let your doctor know you're awake."

When she's gone, Dean scoots his chair closer. "You gave us a scare, Sammy," he says conversationally, though the tightness around his mouth reveals his worry.

Sam frowns and feels a tight tug against his scalp. He lifts his hand to find a bald patch he hopes the rest of his hair will cover and follows a railroad track of stitches over a solid, tender knob on the right side of his skull. Tastes the split in his lower lip, feels two more careful sutures there. His left cheek is swollen, too, and he finds a vertical slice through his eyebrow. He remembers the fight now-the warehouse, the stairs-but he can't remember how it ended. Doesn't take a genius to see the clues pointing at "got your ass handed to you," though.

Dean watches him explore his injuries and ruefully shakes his head. "Dude, you look like Frankenstein."

Sam brushes off the comment and hurries to the point before any hospital staff comes back. "Did I get it?" Dean purses his mouth in an unspoken question, and Sam tries again. "Did you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The djinn. I was waiting for you, like we said, but there was a kid-she was screaming for help. I had to go in without you."

Confusion and worry shade Dean's face. "Gin? Dude, I sent you on a beer run. Figured you'd hit the Kwiki Mart for a half-rack and be back in ten minutes. I didn't think you'd get your Action Jackson on."

"What?"

"I mean, we're proud of you, don't get me wrong. But you gotta leave the heroics to the professionals, man." Dean's eyes are serious, and he leans in closer. "You coulda got yourself killed, Sammy. Next time just call the cops, okay?"

It hurts to frown so hard, but Sam can't help it. "What are you-?" He cuts himself off when an older woman in a white coat comes in, reading off a clipboard.

"So, Mr. Winchester," she says, and Sam can practically see his pulse leap on the monitor next to his bed when she uses his real name. What the fuck is Dean thinking? "I understand you're running for Citizen of the Year."

"Uhm," is all Sam can get out. He searches his brother's face for some indication of the story Dean's invented for the hospital staff.

"I hate to discourage people from coming to the aid of their fellow man," the doctor continues, drawing her glasses off her nose and settling them onto her head, "but as you can see, it's a risky business. Probably best to leave it to the police in the future."

"I was just telling him the same thing, Doc." Dean stands up to make room for the doctor to wave her penlight in Sam's eyes. "How's the girl?" he asks. "She able to tell the cops anything useful?"

The doctor hums affirmatively but doesn't answer until she's done making Sam track her finger and has moved on to gently prodding his ribs, which are sore but don't stab like they're broken. Her face is kind, and her hands are gentle.

"She's fine, thanks to our hero here," she says. "We released her last night. She talked to the police, yes, but I didn't get any details. I'm sure they'll be following up with your brother to get his version of things."

She turns her attention back to Sam, expectant, and he realizes she's waiting for him to tell her what happened.

"I, uh… I don't really remember much." He glances at Dean, follows his cues as best he can, which isn't very well. "I went on a … a beer run. Heard someone calling for help… But after that, it's pretty fuzzy."

The doctor nods, gray eyebrows creasing her forehead. "Not unusual with a blow to the head like the one you took. It'll probably come back to you. Meanwhile, your vitals and reflexes are good, your ribs aren't broken, and, amazingly, your skull's intact. Assuming you pass my battery of 'what year is it, who's president, when's your mother's birthday' tests, I'm going to send you home for a few days' rest."

She turns to Dean, who nods and taps two fingers against Sam's leg.

"I'm gonna make a few calls, okay? I'll spring you as soon as the doc gives the go-ahead."

Sam nods shallowly, carefully, because the rocks in his head are still bumping between his skull and his brain, and Dean heads out.

Sam answers the doctor's questions as well as he can. Fortunately, she doesn't press on the immediate past, and the hunter habit of scouring the media for supernatural gigs keeps Sam up-to-date enough on current events to pass her test.

The doctor leaves after a few minutes, saying she's getting his discharge going. He closes his eyes and tries to shake the feeling of unease gnawing at his stomach. His dream comes back to him-Dad's voice in his ear-and a wave of dizziness washes over him, grief and longing swirling into the sensation.

Something's off, and he worries that maybe he's hurt worse than the doctor thinks. He wishes Dean would come back so he can catch up, find out what happened with the djinn, how he ended up here, what cover his brother's running them under.

Like someone powerful was listening, Dean reappears, pausing in the doorway with a grin.

"Hey, man, you decent? You got visitors."

Sam's head wobbles again-who the hell's going to be visiting him in Joliet? Or anywhere, for that matter? Can't be the cops; Dean wouldn't let the cops at him without getting him up to speed, making sure their stories are straight. He starts to say something-maybe even just "What the hell?"-but his voice dies in his throat when Dean comes all the way into the room, making space for the visitors.

Dad. Dad is standing in the doorway. Next to him is another impossibility. She's older than in the pictures, older than the two memories Sam holds of her, but it's her. It's Mom.

"How you feelin', dude?" Dad asks, but Sam can't answer. Can't do anything but stare at his parents and wonder when he's going to wake up for real.

His mother-she's so beautiful-closes the space between the bed and the door. She leans over and puts her hands on Sam, one on his left shoulder, the other-soft, so soft-on the right side of his face, careful of his bruises and cuts, and Sam sees tears in her blue eyes.

"We were so scared, Sam," she whispers. "It's so good to see you awake." She chokes out an embarrassed-sounding laugh and rolls her eyes as she lifts her hands to wipe her cheek. "Sorry."

But Sam misses her touch already and catches her wrist, draws her hand back to his face, presses it there, manages to get out a hoarse "Mom," and then she's leaning in close enough that he can get his arms around her, feel how solid she is, breathe in the scent of her hair. She smells so real-no ozone, no decay, not a ghost.

Through tear-lensed eyes, Sam can see his father now, too: Dad's got one hand on his wife's back, and Sam feels the other clamp around his shoulder. He remembers that grip, sees something he recognizes as pride in his father's shining eyes-something he always longed for but rarely saw.

This doesn't feel like a dream. He doesn't feel asleep. But how?

Again, it's Dean's voice that draws Sam out.

"You people are like an after-school special over there," Dean teases.

Sam resists the urge to pinch himself to make sure he's awake, because the pain from his injuries is enough to convince him. He's awake, and his parents aren't ghosts, and his brother's standing there with as happy a smile as Sam can remember spread across his face, and Sam knows it's because Dean's looking at everything he's ever wanted: their family, together, whole.

Sam smiles back and wipes the warm dampness off his own face and stops caring how any of this is happening.

***

It's the djinn, of course. Has to be. He doesn't feel dead or insane, so that's the only other explanation for how he's in Lawrence, how he's home. It's the only way to explain how "home" isn't the Impala anymore, but that same blue house he first remembers seeing through the telescope of a nightmare. The house is the same but different: untroubled, filled with light and flowers and lovingly framed photographs of the lives they all should have had.

The research they'd started before things heated up had clued them in to what they were dealing with in Joliet-where, incidentally, it was October, though it seems to be summer in Lawrence. Sam had dug past the kinder, gentler pop-culture version of the lore to learn that djinn could be pretty nasty customers. Not always; occasionally they granted wishes to repay a debt-the old "trapped in a lamp" thing-or to reward the worthy and virtuous.

Sam doesn't remember making a wish in the warehouse, just stumbling backwards, the djinn catching him by the front of his shirt and holding him in that unstable, wrong-direction lean over the long flight of stairs. But he remembers a look of satisfaction and peace on the tattooed face and a whisper that almost glowed: "I see your heart."

It did, Sam realizes as he lets his mother baby him, drawing the quilt up around his chin, stroking his hair off his forehead, and kissing him on his unbruised cheek. In his heart, what Sam's always wanted is to be normal. For his family to be normal.

Sam thinks about the sacrifices they've made, the pains they've all suffered-thinks of the eternity of months Dad spent in hell before he crawled out and the eternity Dean is going to start suffering there in a few months' time-and hopes this refashioned world is the Winchesters' reward for the good they've done.

His mother pushes at the sleeve of her soft pink sweater, and Sam notices the change in the texture and color of the skin on her forearm-the stretched twist of an old burn. He touches it, fingers cautiously tracing the lower edge, and the cut on his eyebrow twinges with his curious frown. Sam looks around the room-what used to be his nursery, where it all went wrong in the old world-and his intuition kicks in, further defining his heart's wish.

"Tell me about the fire?" he asks.

His mother's face flexes briefly, and her hand flutters over his-she's self-conscious about the scar, he realizes, even after all these years.

"You know the story," she says.

"It's all mixed up in my head," Sam explains. "Tell me again? I was a baby, right?"

"That's right. Six months old." Even sad, her smile is beautiful. "We went to the doctor that day, for your checkup. You were such a good baby-stubborn, though, even then. Always knew what you wanted." A shadow falls over her eyes. "You woke up in the middle of the night, and I went to see what was wrong. The fire must have started in the wall-old wiring they said-a few minutes before, because I'd just put you down and gone to the rocking chair to wait and see if you'd go back to sleep, and the wall just exploded in flames. I tried to get to you, but my nightgown caught fire."

Mom blinks and looks away for a few seconds. Sam strokes her wrist with his thumb, and she sniffs and shrugs, eyes back on him. "I don't remember much after that. But your father came running when he heard me scream, and Dean, too. Your father got the flames on my nightgown out, grabbed you, gave you to Dean, and told him to run. And then he carried me out."

"And it was just an electrical fire?"

She nods and strokes his head again. "The fire department got here so fast. They saved the house. The whole thing made a big impression on your brother."

Sam swallows hard and nods, glad that some things hadn't changed with the granting of his wish. Glad that Dean Winchester is one of the universe's immutable forces.

The bed shifts as Mom stands, squeezing Sam's hand as she rises. "Get some sleep now, okay? The doctor said you had to rest. I'll bring you some soup later."

Sam nods, sleepy despite himself. His eyes droop as his mother walks away from his bed, but he rouses himself when he hears her turn the knob.

"Mom?" he calls after her, and she turns back with a smile.

"Mmm hmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too, honey," she tells him, and Sam lets her words carry him into sleep.

***

The sound of children's laughter wakes Sam. Sunlight streams through the break in the curtains, and it feels late. Disoriented, he lifts his arm to check his watch and startles when he realizes he's not alone, that someone's sitting next to him. Sam recognizes her touch instantly, those long, strong fingers tangling in his hair, the way her nails find the precise spot over his temple, know the exact pressure needed to chase all his worries away.

"Jess." He hadn't allowed himself to hope the djinn would be so generous as to give him her back as well. His family-whole, happy, not hellbound-would have been enough.

"Hey, sleepyhead." Jess lets the book in her lap flip shut without marking her place, and Sam rolls over and snakes his arm across her lap, pressing his face into the dip of her waist where she's leaning against the headboard. "I thought you were gonna sleep all day."

She scoots down to lie next to Sam. Her fingers-light as butterfly wings-brush over his eyebrows, his cheekbone. "You scared the crap out of me, Sam Winchester. I never want to get a phone call like that again, you understand me?" Her eyes are wet despite the teasing tone in her voice, which shakes when she speaks again. "I thought I lost you."

"Me, too." Sam's own voice is thick. "Jess. I thought I lost you, too. I thought I lost everything."

It hurts to kiss her, but Sam doesn't care about the pull on the stitches in his lip or the throb in his sinuses or-when the taste of her mouth enflames the rest of his senses and he buries his hands in her long hair and pulls her hard against him-the tenderness in his ribs. The pain proves he's alive, proves this is real. If he were dreaming, he'd feel only the pleasure.

She makes that noise he remembers, the one he still heard in his dreams in the old world-that single soft, high-pitched tone formed in the back of her throat-when he slides a hand under her shirt and spreads it over her breast, thumb working her nipple the way she likes. He remembers this, remembers just how to do this with her.

Ignoring his body's aches, he kicks himself free of the bedding tangled between them, rolls Jess onto her back, and presses himself against her, getting lost in the soft, welcoming warmth of her mouth.

"Sam," she whispers, pulling back. "You're hurt. Your family's downstairs. There's, like, a thousand kids at the block party outside."

"I don't care," he insists into the warm, pulsing column of her throat. "Jess, please. Let me feel you. I need to feel all of you." He fumbles between them, tugging her jeans open and slipping his hand into her underwear. "Please, Jess."

The rise of her hips coincides with her fluttering exhale: "Oh, Sam…" and then as he curls his fingers, "Oh, yes."

He draws his hand away from her heat to help as she wrestles free of her jeans, and she shakes her head, a happily exasperated smile on her face. Sam shimmies out of his sweats and T-shirt while she lays the ground rules.

"Quietly, though. I have to look your parents in the face afterwards. Not to mention your brother. I swear, he can tell when we do it-he always looks like he wants to high-five you anytime we see him within twenty-four hours of having sex."

Sam nods and, naked, quickly relieves her of her top and bra, and then there's nothing left between him and Jess. She's full and warm and ripe and reaching for him, and every move of their bodies against each other is proof of life.

***

Jess puts her hair in a ponytail and sneaks into the bathroom while Sam showers carefully. She briefly joins him, self-consciously rinsing off the scent of their sex and then washing Sam's back for him before ducking out to dry and dress while he finishes up.

He examines himself in the mirror as he dresses. Despite Dean's reaction to his bruised and stitched face in the hospital, Sam thinks he got off easy. Maybe he hasn't in this life, but in his old one he'd taken plenty of worse beatings and not even bothered with a hospital.

The party's in full swing when Sam and Jess join it. A fire engine closes off the road at one end of the block and an ambulance at the other. There are at least four grills pulled out into the street, and Sam spots his father manning one of them and heads over, laughing outright when he sees the faded "Grill Sergeant" apron his dad's wearing over his old USMC t-shirt.

"Not fair to laugh at your own gift, Sam," Dad scolds.

Sam shakes his head incredulously because he somehow remembers that Father's Day-he was thirteen. According to the calendar in his parents' kitchen, it's Father's Day again, which seems to be the reason for both his visit home and the block party. Sam wonders what he got his dad this year.

Dad scrutinizes Sam's face. "How you feelin'? You look better."

"I feel good. Little sore, but I guess the doctor was right about needing to sleep."

Dad moves his gaze to Jess and smiles. "Bet it doesn't hurt to have your girl fly out to take care of you, either."

Sam catches Jess's hand and squeezes it. "Nope, doesn't hurt a bit." He tries not to boggle too obviously as he watches this civilian version of his father flip the burgers on his grill, completely at ease in his domesticity. Dad catches him staring, and Sam covers quickly. "God, I'm starving. Please tell me I can have one of those."

"Medium rare," Dad says, aiming his spatula at a sizzling patty. "Comin' right up."

Mom finds them at the condiments table, hugs them both, telling Jess-it looks to Sam like she's telling Jess for the third or fourth time-how sweet it was of her to fly out when they told her Sam was in the hospital.

"And," she adds, "it's good to have the whole family here for Dean's big day." Sam makes a face, and his mother looks worried again. "You remember," she prompts. "Dean's promotion. It's not official till tomorrow, but the chief's coming this evening to give him his lieutenant's bars." She puts a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm glad you woke up in time. Dean was grumbling that you'd sleep right through it."

She waves toward the near end of the block, where a guy in a dark blue uniform is talking to a group of little kids, pointing at various parts of the big, red ladder truck closing off the intersection. The guy looks up, and Sam's startled-but not, somehow-to realize it's his brother. Dean's a fireman.

Sam's split lip twinges against his grin. "That's awesome." He loves this world, where the impression their family's near tragedy left on his brother turned him into a firefighter-an acknowledged hero-instead of a hunter and suspected serial killer. "I gotta go congratulate him."

Dean's finishing up his speech on fire prevention, and when he's done Sam strides forward, Jess beside him, and claps his big brother on the shoulder.

"Mom just told me." He waggles his fingers at his head. "Sorry, I needed reminding. Congratulations, man. That's awesome." He pulls his brother into a hug, thumps him hard on the back a couple of times. "I'm really proud of you, Dean. We all are." Dean shrugs him off, making Sam laugh at how predictable his brother is.

"Dude, dial down your emo, would you? There's girls watching."

Jess smiles and shakes her head. "You've got a lot to learn about women, Dean," she teases. "We like it when men show their feelings."

Dean takes a moment to consider the possibility. "Guess that explains what you see in Mr. Sensitive Puppydog Eyes here," he concludes. "I always wondered how he landed someone so far out of his league."

The look Dean tosses Sam makes him blush-Jess is right, Dean can tell they did it within the hour and is totally mentally high-fiving him-but also conveys his strong approval of Sam's choice in women.

Abruptly, Dean's expression changes. His eyes widen briefly, and his jaw slackens into a momentary dangle.

"I'll be damned," he says, low. "I didn't think she'd show."

Sam follows Dean's gaze as his brother raises his hand to a familiar-looking brunette in a yellow sundress approaching the fire truck.

"Melanie!" Dean calls, stepping forward. "Hey, I'm glad you could make it." He aims his hand at Sam and Jess, and Sam realizes it's his nurse from yesterday. "You remember my brother, the giant with the black eye."

"Of course. How're you feeling, Sam?"

"Really good, actually," Sam says. "Thanks."

Dean hurries to finish the introductions. "And this is Jess, Sam's fiancée."

Sam does a double take, which, thankfully, no one else seems to notice, and stares at the sparkle on Jess's left hand as she extends her right to the nurse. Trying to be casual about it, he picks up her hand. It's the ring he'd been eyeing before the fire-the one he'd started saving for a year before that, six months after they'd met. He doesn't need to be reminded how or when he asked. He knows it happened just as he'd been planning: Top of the Mark in San Francisco, New Year's Eve, a minute past midnight, 2006.

Melanie's openly admiring gaze trails over Dean in his uniform. "And here I thought you were putting me on when you said you were a firefighter. What're you guys-superhero brothers?"

"Nah. I let Sammy sidekick for me once in a while," Dean concedes, and the affection Sam hears in his brother's voice feels warmer than the June sun on his shoulders. "But I'm the superhero in the family."

"Hey!" Jess protests. "I say saving a teenaged girl from an armed attacker-best case he was gonna mug her, worst case…" She slides her arm around Sam's waist and squeezes. "That ranks as superly heroic in my book." A sound kiss on Sam's undamaged cheek punctuates her declaration.

"I have to agree," Melanie says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "He got his ass kicked around the block!"

Jess's fingertips are cool against the skin of Sam's neck. "Don't listen to him, babe. You'll always be my Superman."

Sam sees Dean's eyes flare on their way into an exasperated roll and groans, "Oh, God, here we go" at the exact same moment that Dean launches into an indignant, impassioned, and familiar treatise on Batman's superiority over Superman. Dean's lost none of his conviction in the transition from old world to new, and Sam doesn't even bother defending Superman's case this time, just tightens his arm around his girl's waist and basks in the contentment this particular June afternoon has brought him.

***

They fly back to California on Tuesday. Sam knows Jess wouldn't take it, but he quietly thanks his parents when they slip him a check to help with her last-minute plane fare. The new world's memories are easing themselves awake in his mind, and Sam knows that Jess's job at a chichi art gallery in downtown Palo Alto pays most of their rent; his scholarship covers his law school tuition and books with a little left over for living expenses, but not much. She teases him that once he's a big-time lawyer, she's going to become a ridiculously expensive trophy wife.

Being back at Stanford with Jess isn't as peaceful as Sam expected. He tries, he really does, but he can't bear the apartment. On nights he does manage to fall asleep in their bed, he has nightmares-the same ones he had in the old world's first months after Jess's murder: Jess bent and bleeding on the ceiling, engulfed in a deadly blossom of flame. The first time it happens, it fills him with panic and grief that he can't control, and eventually he has to go to the living room, curl himself into a tight ball on the couch, and shake.

Even sleeping on the couch, he can't escape the bedroom. His family and Jess appear as flickering ghosts gathered around his bed, watching him sleep, then burst away in a flash of blue flame or, in Jess's case, float serenely upward to a spot on the ember-bed of the ceiling.

The stress manifests itself during the waking hours, too, especially-painfully-where Jess is concerned. He can't have sex in their bedroom. Even when they're doing it in the shower or on the couch or across the kitchen table, Sam has to concentrate so hard to block out the pain and fear the apartment dredges up in him that he can barely finish; a few times he simply and humiliatingly wilts halfway through.

Jess isn't stupid. She knows there's something going on. She knows when it started and carefully, lovingly, suggests that he talk to a counselor. He could have been killed, after all, she reminds him. There's no shame in being freaked out by that. But Sam knows it isn't about the alley, or his entry into this new world. It's the apartment, and he can't tell Jess why it's smothering him, can't tell her that in another life he watched her die there.

After a month, he finds them a new place-farther from campus but a little cheaper-and though she's confused, Jess says that if Sam needs to move, then they'll move. It's better immediately. Sam celebrates by making slow, elaborate love to Jess in their bed for the first time since they got back from Kansas.

Sam spends the summer working at the library-the same part-time job he had as an undergrad. The first week back at Stanford he digs through every reference he can find, looking for clues. He talks to a few professors in the religious studies and anthropology departments. They confirm what he's come up with in his own research-all the lore says the djinn have the power to grant wishes. None of the academics believe that to be true, and Sam makes a show of not believing it, either, but he's seen too much-both as a hunter in the old world and as a functional, not-dreaming resident of this new one-to dismiss it.

A pass through a few of his favorite research Web sites brings Sam evidence of other hunters at work, and on a whim, he calls the Roadhouse. He's rattled but pleased to hear Ellen holler "Damnit, Bill, don't you encourage her!" before she slides into her usual greeting. Sam stammers a little when he asks whether they're open Sundays, listens to Jo's laugh in the background as her mother answers him, and then bails out, pleased that his wish kept the Harvelle family intact, too.

It's real. This new world is real, and it's good, and Sam decides to make the most of the second chance his family's been given. He gets back to the business of prepping for his final year of law school, grateful that the knowledge gained in his first two years seems to have come with the Winchester Normal Life package. He talks to his family regularly-calls Dean a couple of times a week to share random bits of information, and Dean does the same. The only thing keeping it from being perfect is that Sam continues to dream about his ghost-family, who picked up their observation of his sleep after about a week in the new place. They no longer burst into flame, however, which makes it more bearable; they just watch.

In August, when their mother calls to tell him Dean's been dating Melanie the Nurse since the block party, Sam hears the unspoken hope in her voice that her eldest son-as dedicated a player in the new world as he was in the old-might have found someone special. Sam keeps his mouth shut, though, because last week Dean confided in him that though it took nearly a month to get her into bed, Melanie's been there more or less ever since, and Dean's freaking out about having cleared out a drawer for her in his dresser. Sam figures there's no point piling on the stress of their mother's apparent interest in seeing Dean settle down.

One night, a few days after classes start, Sam wakes sweaty and wet-faced from a dream where he watches Dean struggle against an invisible hand pinning him to the bedroom wall. He can't see the demon holding his brother, but he can feel its presence, the evil thickening the air until it's sticky and hot like August in Florida. His brother looks like hell-four days of stubble on his gaunt face, hands shaking with the fruitless fight he's putting up. The demon's laughing now, and the sound flips a switch in Sam's consciousness; for the first time, his dream-self can do more than sleep. He rolls clumsily off the bed and starts toward Dean-gets as far as thinking the words he wants to say-"Don't worry, I'm gonna save you"-before he's thrown back onto the bed and left to thrash helplessly there as Dean slides up to the ceiling and bursts into flames. He doesn't burn away, though, just hangs there, coal-red eyes locked on Sam's.

"You said you wouldn't give up on me, Sammy." Dean's voice is rough, quiet, and he starts to stutter out, phasing into burnt-orange translucence. "But you're lookin' pretty freakin' comfy. Everything you ever wanted. But what've I got? What've I got, Sam?"

He flashes out of existence before Sam can answer.

Sam slinks out of bed, rinses his face, and stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, watching Jess sleep. His back is prickly with sweat. His phone's in the other room, and he goes to the couch and squints at the white light from the screen as he thumbs up Dean's number. It's five in the morning in Kansas. Dean'll kill him.

He calls anyway.

"Jesus, Sam. You better be in the hospital again, callin' me in the middle of the fuckin' night."

Now that Dean's voice is in his ear, sounding like any-world's Dean, Sam doesn't know what to say.

"Sorry, man. I…" Dean's gonna give him so much shit for this. "I had a dream. It freaked me out. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

There are two long breaths on the other end of the phone, and Sam waits for Dean to start cursing or laughing, one or the other. He's surprised by the question his brother poses, by the careful tone in his sleepy voice.

"Are you okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam insists, though he knows he's put too much bluster into the confirmation. He can hear Dean not buying it. "I just…"

"'Cause-don't get mad, okay? But Jess called me awhile back. Before you guys moved."

Sam's throat tightens. "Yeah? What about?"

He can almost see Dean shaking his head. "You know what about, man. She said you'd been having nightmares from the minute you got back from Father's Day weekend. Waking up screaming, crying out in your sleep-calling for her, me, Mom and Dad."

"What else did she say?" Sam hates himself a little for the accusation he hears in his voice, but he can't help it-can't bear the idea of Dean knowing the old apartment rendered him periodically impotent.

"Nothing. Chill out, would you? She was worried about you. We all were. You had your skull cracked open and spent a month acting like you needed to wear your address pinned to your shirt."

Shame washes over Sam for even thinking Jess would share something so private. When he apologizes to Dean, he hopes the universe knows it's for Jess, too. "Sorry. I'm sorry, man." He swallows, tries to explain. "It's been weird, since that weekend. Better since we moved. But, yeah, these dreams. It's not screaming nightmares anymore, just… I keep dreaming that you and Mom and Dad-Jess, too-that you're dead, and you're haunting me. And tonight, I dreamed … I watched you die, Dean."

Three slow breaths whistle in speaker of Sam's phone before Dean speaks again. "Sam. I'm fine. It's just a nightmare."

"I know," Sam says.

"Look, there's a lot going on for you right now, okay? Last year of school, bar exam and job hunting coming up after graduation. And presumably you're gonna make an honest woman of Jessica someday… You throw a fat load of random violence into that mix, and it can mess with your head, make things seem bigger than they are. But you're fine, Sam. And Jess and Mom and Dad and me? We're all fine, too."

Sam presses his fingers against his stinging eyes and swallows down against the unease in his throat. He nods to cement the statement in his own mind. They're fine. His family is fine now. That's the whole point.

"Okay." Dean's familiar teasing tone rounds his voice. "We done with this slumber party? 'Cause my twenty-four-on shift starts at nine, and I gotta get a couple more hours sleep at least."

"God, I'm sorry, Dean. Yeah. I'm good. Go back to sleep."

"Don't worry about it, Sammy. Just get some rest. Try to relax, okay? Everything's good."

"I'll try."

"'Kay. Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"When you talk to Mom, tell her I need about two more weeks, and then she can invite me and Melanie over for dinner."

"Dinner with the folks, huh? Sounds pretty girlfriendly."

"Shut up. And get Mom off my case. She's drivin' me nuts."

"Roger that." Sam smiles. "'Night, Dean. Thanks."

When the line goes dead, Sam gets off the couch and goes to stand in the bedroom doorway, watching the wall where Dean was pinned, but it stays empty. Sam sighs, sets his phone on the bedside table, and slides into bed, where Jess's steady, snuffly breathing lulls him to sleep.

***

Sam's in class-his phone politely off-when the call comes. He doesn't notice the voice-mail icon till he passes the grocery store a couple of blocks from the apartment and starts to call Jess to see if she needs him to pick anything up.

It's Dad's number, and the message is short.

"Sam. It's Dad." The recorded voice hitches. "Call home as soon as you get this, son. We love you."

Sam's chilled to the bone with dread as he holds down the speed dial for his father's cell phone. Dad picks up before the first ring finishes.

"Sammy."

"Dad? What is it?" His father is crying, and Sam sinks onto a bus-stop bench, clenching the phone until he thinks it might shatter. "Dad, please tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, God, Sammy. I'm so sorry. There was a fire."

Sam's insides are ice-every part of him is frozen. "No, Dad. Mom-?"

"She's here." There's a tight, high noise in the background, and his father raises his voice over it. "Sam, it's your brother."

"No. No no no no no. Dad, no."

"He's gone, Sam. We lost Dean."

It can't be. Dean's fine. Sam talked to him two days ago-a report on his and Melanie's dinner with Mom and Dad.

"No," Sam repeats. "No, that's not right. Everything's good here. Dean said so. This isn't supposed to happen here. Not anymore. Not to Dean."

Dad breaks into Sam's denial. "Sam, please. Come home, okay? First flight you can get. Your mother… We need you." His voice breaks again, and he sobs-a sound Sam's never heard from his father in either world. "Come home, Sammy."

When Sam is next aware, there's a bus rumbling at the curb in front of him and a worried-looking old man shaking him by the shoulder.

"Hey, buddy. You okay? You need an ambulance or something?"

Sam's lungs are heaving-he's hyperventilating-and the air is filled with a weird, whining sound he thinks might be coming from him. The only thought that's remotely clear in his head is on a repeat loop: "Dean's dead. My brother is dead."

"Hey, c'mon, man." Sam feels the phone pried out of his clawed hand. "You got somebody I can call?"

He wants to say to call Dean, but he can't. Dean's dead. "Jess," he gasps. "Please. I need Jess."

***

Of all the nightmares he's lived through-before or after the world changed-Dean's funeral is the worst, and no matter what he does, no matter what mental games or tricks he tries, Sam can't wake up.

He stands at the edge of the raw, gaping hole in the ground-the same plot where their uncle buried their mother in another life-with his left arm wrapped around Mom's waist and Jess holding fiercely onto his right. As the fire chief finishes his eulogy about heroism and sacrifice, Sam feels a gentle tug on the cuff of his jacket and looks up to see his father's tear-streaked face watching him from Mom's other side. Dad's eyes carry an unspoken question. Sam clamps his throat closed over a sob and gives his head a tight shake before dropping his stare back to the grass at his feet. Dad had asked him to speak, but he can't do it. Dad's hand grips his briefly at Mom's hip, and then he steps away from his family to talk to the crowd about his son, Dean Winchester.

It takes every ounce of self control Sam can muster to hold himself together when they lower Dean's coffin-when they lower Dean-into the grave and start shoveling. Mom first, sobbing, then Dad, and then Sam feels the small shovel pressed into his hands. The tool confounds and immobilizes him-he can't make it work in this direction. He’s never buried anyone he hasn’t already dug up.

Sam stands with the shovel in his hands, choking for breath, and feels Jess's cool hand on the back of his neck.

"Sam," she whispers, and her hands tighten around his on the handle of the shovel.

Sam grinds his teeth painfully, sucks in a desperate breath, and somehow manages to deposit a neat clump of damp dirt into the grave. He passes the shovel off hurries away from the crowd, noticing as he goes that Melanie-his nurse, Dean's girlfriend-is squeezed into a line of uniformed men in the first row of non-family mourners.

He finds the nearest crypt and rounds its corner so he's blocked from the view of Dean's funeral. He leans against the mossy stone and cries until a high, soft voice addresses him.

"Sam. I'm so sorry, honey."

Sam recognizes the voice immediately, though he feels sure he's never heard it in this version of the world.

Even dressed formally and wearing a somber expression, Missouri looks the same. Her eyes are as liquid and black and bottomless as he remembers, and her hands slide over his in the same omniscient way.

"You know me?" he asks, frightened somehow. "Do we know each other here?"

"I know who you are," she says, but it isn't really an answer. She looks into his face for a long time, her thumb still running back and forth over the top of his hand. "I read about your brother in the paper. How he saved that family, that other fireman."

Danny something, Sam remembers. One of the newer guys at the department. The stairs collapsed as he and Dean carried the kids out. Dean got the family clear and went back for his partner, who's recovering now in the same hospital where Sam woke up a few months earlier-smoke inhalation, a broken ankle, and some burns.

"Your brother. Dean," Missouri continues. "He isn't in that grave."

Sam's skin prickles with apprehension. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, that grave over there-that's not where your brother is."

"Where is he?" Sam asks.

Missouri's response, again, isn't an answer. "Well, where do you think he is?"

Sam blinks. Conjures up the faith he remembers having, the faith Dean didn't understand or share.

"In heaven?"

He wants it to come out as a statement rather than a question, because he thinks it's true. Because in this demon-free world Sam wished, Dean never went to a crossroad to trade his soul for Sam's life. Dean may be dead here, but he isn't in hell.

"Your girlfriend's here," Missouri observes, tilting her head back toward the funeral, and Sam hears footsteps approaching, hears Jess's voice. She releases Sam's hand and backs up. "You come see me, Sam, when you're ready."

She walks away, leaving Sam to lean heavily against the crypt, wearily wipe his hand over his burning eyes, and wait for Jess to lead him back.

***

Jess lies next to Sam and gently runs her fingers around the knot of muscle and bone at the base of his skull until he finally falls asleep.

Some time later, a staticky buzz sets Sam's brain vibrating, and he opens his eyes to see Dean sitting at the foot of the bed-silent and guttering like a candle. Sam gets up, leaving his body twined around Jess's, and hurries to catch his brother by the arms. But his hands pass through Dean's muscle and bone, through ribs and heart and lungs, and come out cold and empty.

Dean flickers violently-old soccer and basketball trophies gleam in the momentary spaces his here-and-gone cycle creates and destroys-and Sam beats his fists against his thighs in frustration.

"Don't go, Dean!" he beseeches. "Don't leave me."

Suddenly opaque and wearing a bright blue aura, Dean scowls at Sam. "You're the one who left, Sam!" The accusation is punctuated by a stab of his finger that would have left a bruise had Dean been corporeal. "You're the one who walked away."

Sam feels tears starting. He wonders how much salt and water his eyes can take before they corrode like the undercarriage of an unloved car.

Dean seems to read his thoughts. "You better take care of that car. I swear, you let it get rust, and I'll-"

"You'll what, Dean?" Sam starts to laugh, but the reflex spasms and dies in his chest. "You're already haunting me. What else're you gonna do?"

"Take care of my car, Sammy," Dean repeats before he crackles around the edges and pops away.

Sam is yanked backward, his dream-self slamming into his sleeping body, which jerks awake with a sharp cry of protest.

"Sam," Jess soothes, awake now, too, her hands stroking down the knitted join of his ribs. "I'm here. You're gonna get through this. I love you."

***

The next day, Sam takes Jess to Dean's apartment in the car they rented at the airport. He uses his parents' key to get in and spends an hour rifling through his brother's things while Jess hovers a few yards back. He finds Dean's leather jacket and shrugs it on, though it's tight across the shoulders and his wrists hang long and pale out of the sleeves. He finds a spare set of keys to the Impala in a kitchen drawer and pockets them, then drives to the fire station, where the Impala's still parked. On the trip home, Jess follows so closely that he can see the worry on her face when he looks in the rearview mirror.

Dean wavers in and out as he rides shotgun, alternately glaring at Sam and backseat driving, arms defiantly crossed when he isn't gesturing impatiently.

"Dude," Sam barks as he turns onto Mom and Dad's street. "You taught me how to drive, remember? Chill out."

"I'm a frickin' ghost, Sam. I'd say I'm chilled."

Sam pulls over opposite the house and tilts his head, considering. "But why are you a ghost?" he asks, and Dean rolls his eyes. "No, I'm serious," Sam insists. "Why aren't you at rest? What's holding you here?"

Dean's sputtering eyebrows arch in disbelief, and he shakes his head. "You really expect me to answer that?" He leans his head back like he's settling in for a nap. "That's not how it works. Figure it out, College Boy."

"Sam?" Jess's tap on the window makes him jump, and when he looks back, the passenger seat is empty. "Come on inside, okay? You hungry yet?"

He is. For the first time since Dad's voice mail, Sam's hungry. His head is clear, too-a plan forming there, sharp and simple.

***

Jess's mouth and brow curve with her silent question when Sam reaches for her that night, his hands sure and direct. He can read the surprise on her face, but she doesn't hold back; she gives herself to him as wholeheartedly as she's always done. The only difference is the hand she presses to her mouth as she comes-still shy in his parents' house. Sam rests his head on her chest afterward, hearing her heart pound through the flesh of her left breast as he cups her right in his hand, pressing it inward so he can nuzzle her, breathe in Jess-scented air.

When she starts to fall asleep, Sam moves off, lets her shift into a fetal curl, wraps himself around her, and reviews his plan.

He waits until one, figuring he'll need a good five hours to do the job on his own. There's a pick and shovel set in the garage, and he made a supply run earlier under the auspices of picking up the Chinese they ordered for dinner. The only tricky part is getting down the creaky stairs without waking anyone.

It's easier digging than he expected-time hasn't packed the earth as tightly as in older graves, and it hasn't rained in a couple of weeks, so the soil's not carrying much extra water weight. Sam works with single-minded determination, finding an almost-mechanical rhythm that blocks out any sentimental distractions. He takes a break about five feet down-hoists himself onto the edge of the pit, sweating and breathing hard, his muscles singing with the exercise.

Sam drops back into his brother's grave when he sees the headlights swing into the curved drive leading to this section of the cemetery. The car's dome light illuminates her golden hair as Jess stands up, and Sam sinks into a squat to buy himself some thinking time. He hears Jess exclaim as she gets close enough to see the mound of dirt, the flashlight Sam's stuck into it to light his workspace. When the groaned "Oh, my God" comes from directly above him, he straightens up, hands spread disarmingly.

"Jess," he starts, but the horror on her face cuts him off, and her astonished question follows a moment later.

"God, Sam. What are you doing?" Jess drops to her knees and reaches out, hands closing around his shoulders. Her voice rises, high and scared and shaking. "Stop it! Come out!"

"It's okay, Jess," Sam assures her. "I know what I'm doing."

"No, you don't!" Her fingers pinch as they clutch and pull at his sweaty T-shirt. "You have to stop."

Sam leans the shovel against the hole's wall and covers her shaking hands with his own. Grave dirt clings between his knuckles and rings his fingernails, making her wrists look even paler.

"I can't stop, Jess. I have to help Dean."

"Not like this!" she cries. "I know you miss him, I know you want him back, but you can't do this. It's wrong. You have to let him go, Sam. Let him rest."

Sam shrugs her hands away and steps back. She doesn't understand. Even in the old world, Jess didn't know how things really worked; he never told her.

"That's what I'm doing," he tells her, his voice even and assured, trying to calm her down. He picks up the shovel and puts his back into his work. He's almost there. "I'm not trying to bring him back. I'm helping him rest."

He feels a twinge of guilt when he hears her start crying but tightens his focus back to the job at hand. He'll explain everything later, after he's saved Dean.

Jess sobs in a huddle at the graveside for a few minutes before she starts in on him again, anger replacing the hysteria in her voice.

"Damn it, Sam! Listen to me!"

Sam pauses in his digging-he's so close-when he hears her stifle a groan as she scrambles down into the grave with him. She's tall, and the adrenaline is making her strong, and when she pulls Sam around to face her, he loses his footing and stumbles against the dirt wall.

"You have to stop!" she demands, and then her tone changes again. "We'll get you help, okay? Baby, I promise we'll help you. Just stop digging and come home."

"How'd you even find me?" Sam asks, ignoring her pleas.

Jess throws up her hands. "I'm not stupid, Sam! I know how much you love your brother. I woke up, and you were gone. Dean's car was gone. When you weren't at his apartment, I figured you must've come here." She reaches out as if to touch him but pulls back at the last second. Her shoulders hitch again, and she folds one arm tight across her chest, hand curled up to cover her mouth as she cries. "I thought you came to say goodbye."

"I did," Sam says simply.

"Not like this!" She grabs at him again, pulls hard. "Come out. Come out and say goodbye." Sam shakes her off and heaves the shovel back into the earth, and she slaps him, a stinging blow across his shoulder blade. "Sam! Sam, please! Think about what you're doing."

His shovel hits wood, the shock of it sending aching vibrations into his forearms. It's just as satisfying a feeling as he remembers. He tosses the dirt out and digs in again, turning his triumphant grin to Jess, who's backed herself into the far end of the plot, both hands clutched over her mouth, sobbing.

"Don't worry, Jess." He moves toward her-only two steps in this small space-and puts his hand gently on her arm. "Here, baby. Let me help you out. I can't get the coffin open with both of us in here."

Her face-she's so beautiful-is streaked with dirt and tears, and it makes Sam sad to see how frightened she is. He didn't mean for her to see any of this.

"Don't be afraid," he assures her, and lays the flat of one hand along her jaw. He leans in and presses his lips to the other cheek, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling her tremble and shrink away from him.

She doesn't protest when he weaves his fingers together to make a step for her-just puts her sneakered foot into his hands and lets him boost her up so she can roll out onto the grass, where she lies gasping for breath next to the gas and salt cans while Sam picks up his shovel and gets back to work.

It's only a couple minutes later when the first strobes of red and blue light cut through the still, predawn blackness hanging over the cemetery. Sam hears tires crunching on the gravel drive and shoots upright, looking for Jess, who's unfolding herself from her tight curl and is pushing onto her knees. She scrambles for Sam's coat and digs out his phone. He sees her thumb through the address book and rushes to finish the job.

"You called the cops?" he accuses as he flings another shovelful of dirt out of the grave. God, he only needs five minutes.

"No!" Jess's denial is edged with panic. "Of course not. Sam, stop! Stop before they-"

When he looks again, there's a Maglite beam bobbing across the yards of lawn and graves between the parked cars and the Winchester plot.

"John?" Jess speaks in a rush into the phone. "John, please, I'm sorry. I tried to stop him. He's at the cemetery. But the … the police are here, and they-"

A firm male voice calls out through the darkness. "Step back from the grave, young lady!"

Sam gives up on the shovel and drops to his knees, clawing desperately at the sides of the hole he's dug, scrabbling for purchase at the edge of Dean's coffin.

"Please!" Jess is talking to the cop now, Sam can hear it in her voice. "He's upset. His brother died. He's not himself. Please don't hurt him! Sam, come out!"

The beam from the cop's light cuts into Dean's grave, making Sam wince. He hears the click as the cop cracks open the snap securing his pistol in its holster.

"Stand up real slow, son," comes the command. "Hands where I can see 'em." The direction of the voice shifts, and Sam knows without looking that the cop's turned toward Jess. He briefly considers sweeping the guy's legs from under him, pulling him into the grave, and disarming him, but the edge in the cop's voice when he snaps at Jess to stop moving and hang up the phone stays Sam.

"John?" Jess is crying again. "John, I think they're going to arrest us. Please come." There's a beep as she ends the call.

"Sam?" she calls. "Sam, please just do what he says. He won't hurt you."

"She's right, Sam," the cop says. "It's all over. Come on out of there."

Sam tilts his head and squints into the light; he can see the outline of the cop's hand hovering an inch above his gun.

He drops his head in defeat, resting his forehead against the gritty wood of his brother's casket and whispering, "I'm sorry," before pushing wearily to his feet, hands spread wide at shoulder height.

***

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